


From Dust

by akeetpotato



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9454970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akeetpotato/pseuds/akeetpotato
Summary: Twenty years after the Fall of New Vegas, a lone survivor stumbles into the small town of Grand Staircase alive. But the first person to leave the Mojave has done so with an almost unimaginable amount of blood on his hands.(setting is the mod Fallout: Dust, many of the ideas and world building are from naugrim's personal posts on the mod Nexus.)





	

The Grand Staircase. Before the war, it had been a national park where people had traveled, hoping to escape the rigors and pollution of city living. After the war, it was just another part of the Utah Badlands, remarkably untouched by the bombs and free of radiation. An oasis in the middle of the desert.  
  
And now, it was free of the toxic Cloud that had swept over the Mojave seventeen years before. A combination of the strong, constant winds blowing through the mountain pass and an NCR cleanup team wearing hazmat suits had succeeded in purifying the small frontier town. It had only been a year before the old inhabitants had been able to return to their homes.  
  
Sergeant Montgomery took another drink of clean spring water from his well-worn canteen. God, but that was good stuff. The water here was one of the reasons why he loved this place, simply untouched by the radiation of the bombs and the later Cloud. Even in the heart of the NCR, people had to pay through the nose for purified water, and here you could have as much as you wanted from the hand pump. It was a beautiful thing to be able to take for granted.  
  
The town was a pretty okay place to live, he thought. Only about fifty people called the Staircase home, mostly farmers and ranchers. The soil was rocky, but well irrigated. There wasn't much in the way of trade, but a few intrepid miners had been discovering small pockets of oil in the area.  
  
Oil, or rather the lack thereof, was the main reason the war began so long ago, Montgomery remembered. It was practically a miracle that it hadn't already been dug up, in that desperate world hungry for fuel. And now, it would prove to be a source of prosperity to the people here. Many of the atomic power cores that had fueled vehicles and power grids had failed, meaning that oil would be more valuable than gold to the NCR. The possibility of Biodiesel had been explored, but the scarce amounts of farming land had been deemed too valuable for food to be used for fuel.  
  
The Grand Staircase, for all it's natural beauty and riches, was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere (probably the closest NCR town to the Mojave.) Strictly speaking, it was shit duty for the handful of troopers defending the town. Somewhere where they wouldn't get themselves into too much trouble.  
  
But for the Sergeant, this posting was more like a vacation. Sure, there weren't specific amenities and they did have to lodge at the tavern in uncomfortable beds, but the place was peaceful. Quiet. Relaxing, after the earlier conflicts between the splinter factions of NCR leadership.  
  
The news had come by caravan, today. The big cities were beginning to be connected by radio signals, for both military and civilian use to communicate urgent information for a near-astronomical fee. But even if someone was in a hurry, there was no faster way to reach the Staircase than the two weeks it took a caravan to arrive from the Boneyard.  
  
And what news it was. That mad scientist who had been convicted for crimes against humanity-Montgomery couldn't even remember his name, now. Bernard? After months of deliberation and increasing protests from an irate public, the Followers had finally sentenced the man to death. The NCR public had responded with much rejoicing, especially as the full report of his crimes was revealed.  
  
Montgomery spit and scowled. Every NCR citizen, and probably everyone on the entire west coast, knew the story of the Fall of Vegas. The rebellion, the Cloud, and Company 33 who had abandoned orders and marched into the dust. None of them had other been seen again, lost to the hellhole the Mojave had become. They'd become legend now to the NCR. The Damned 33rd.  
  
Montgomery had known men in that unit. He'd been just a kid then, been lucky to make it out of Vegas before the fighting started. His dad had decided that that city of sin was no place to raise a child, and had saved both of their lives from the rebellion and the manmade hell that had covered that place.  
  
No one knew for sure what was happening in the Mojave, over the past years since the fall. The Cloud and radiation had been cleaned away from a majority of the closer cities, and much of the captured Legion territory in Arizona was clean as well. But the Mojave itself remained, covered by a constant swirling cloud of dust that blocked out the sun. Only a handful had ventured in. None had ever returned.  
  
Montgomery took another drink of water, thankful for his wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. The sun seemed brighter up here- like there was less air to get in the way. He'd noticed that when he'd first arrived, how easily he got out of breath. Now, he barely even noticed a difference from when he'd done basic in Adytum.  
  
His chair wasn't particularly comfortable, recycled from old plastic bottles and weaved into a mesh around an old metal frame. But he'd definitely had worse, he thought as he leaned back, staring up at the distant clouds. Glorified guard duty. It was important for the new leadership to be seen as taking charge, as protective of the people they looked after. The wide-spread corruption and bribery was supposed to be put to an end.  
  
That meant that people like Montgomery were stationed in every tiny town in NCR territory, officially reporting directly to the government. He might have a badge now, and the title of Sheriff, but to the four men under his command he'd always be the Sarge. And he felt the same way.  
  
Nearly all of the police force were military or former military. Some towns hired volunteers under a commissioned leader, others just took entire squads, command structure intact, and placed them in charge of the law. The brass didn't care, as long as they made their reports on time and kept the peace.  
  
It was probably for the best, anyway. The NCR public had been pissed after the increasingly unpopular war in the Mojave had failed to win them Vegas or Hoover Dam. While no one knew the exact number of soldiers that had died fighting over that godforsaken desert, it was far more than anyone was willing to pay again.  
  
There'd been widespread criticism of the military. Widespread calls for the government to step down. And the new leadership was anxious to avoid the mistakes of the past. Montgomery scoffed. If the Followers had tried to expand NCR territory, they'd have been booed out of the office.  
  
So they'd directed their efforts inward, using their resources to properly defend instead of expanding outwards. The Courier had warned the NCR at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam that taking the Mojave would have destroyed them. That he was doing them a favor. Considering what had happened later, many were inclined to agree.  
  
Montgomery wasn't complaining. Sheriff was easy, compared to Sergeant. The town was peaceful, just the way he liked it. Sometimes, someone would have a little too much to drink and take a drunken swing at some other layabout. That wasn't a problem. All it took was the threat of higher authority, and those small problems ran for cover like rabbits.  
  
He'd only needed to fire the 1911 by his side twice. Most of the townsfolk were armed, in an attempt to keep wild animals and robbers away. While their enthusiasm was appreciated, the wild animals knew to keep distant from the town. And who would think about robbing the place? Fifty miles from the nearest town, nothing of particular value other than bighorners and fresh water.  
  
Truth be told, there wasn't much that bothered Montgomery about the Grand Staircase. With the notable exception of that tunnel.  
  
When he'd first arrived, it had drawn his attention. That large cave, with the locked metal door at the back. It sent prickles down his spine, thoughts of the unknown making him nervous. All the inhabitants he'd asked mentioned it had always been there, always locked.  
  
No keyhole, no doorknob, no window. The town did have dynamite, and Montgomery had taken explosives training. He could have blown it off it's hinges, or tunneled around it through the rock. But to be honest, he didn't feel that there could be anything good behind that door.  
  
In that direction was Zion, another oasis of relative peace. Or at least, it had been. Reports had indicated violence in the area, the tribes fleeing. That had been over a decade ago. An NCR task force had entered through a mountain pass six months before, in an attempt to reclaim it and purify its water sources. They had failed to respond or return.  
  
So he kept watching. Watching that tunnel and that door. Sometimes he closed one eye, and he always left his safety on. But he always watched. It was a beautiful day, he thought. They nearly always were. Even when it rained, the Grand Staircase becoming practically a river, it was beautiful in a wild, rugged way. Fortunately, it didn't rain often. The crops would wash away.  
  
_Wham._ The sound of metal clunking against metal rose up, in the distance. Montgomery looked out from under his hat. The blacksmith was at it again- but his shop was in the other direction. _Wham._ The sound was clearly coming from- _Wham._ From the tunnel.  
  
He cursed, scrambling to his feet as he sprinted down the stairs, leaving behind his impromptu watchpost as he drew his gun. He should have used that dynamite to collapse the cave, wall it off underneath the mountain. Then whatever it was on the other side wouldn't have a chance of getting in. Several people were beginning to stare, business forgotten and eyes on the tunnel.  
  
_Wham!_ With a final crashing sound, the door swung ajar, cracking against the rock behind it. Montgomery removed the safety, aiming at the open doorway. One of his men arrived, face stained from lunch and as white as a sheet. “Sarge!” he whispered. “We've got to get everyone out of here!”  
  
“There's no time.” He said, despairing that he couldn't find more sturdy cover. “Either it's something we can take down, or we can't.” The private nodded, drawing his revolver. Their little squad's sniper appeared atop the tavern roof, rifle in hand. Hopefully the others weren't asleep. Or drunk. Or in bed with a lady. All this relaxation had made them soft, caught them off guard.  
  
Movement, in the cave. Montgomery was tempted to open fire, but discipline and reason checked him. He was a good shot, but not good enough at this range. Especially with a sidearm. They'd just be wasting ammo- and maybe the He held up his hand, a signal to wait until he gave the signal. The civilians had finally gotten some inkling of what was happening and retreated into the buildings. This was no longer a place for the untrained.  
  
From out of the shadows, a man walked slowly. His head was covered by a combat helmet, some kind of goggles, and a filtered breathing mask to stop radiation. He was wearing a dust covered suit of armor, bandoliers holding magazines and an armored longcoat. Montgomery hissed. Riot gear, normally only found in the hands of veteran NCR rangers, even more durable and impenetrable than Combat armor. They'd need armor piercing rounds, or explosives to stand a chance against him.  
  
On his back was an overstuffed backpack, bedroll clearly visible on the top. Strapped to one side was a fire axe, looking almost out of place among the survival equipment. And in the man's hands was a marksman carbine, just as dusty and worn down as everything else looked. Montgomery didn't like his chances, especially with that weapon. It wasn't anywhere near as terrifying as a rocket launcher would have been, but with that armor of his he had an incredible advantage.  
  
The man took another step forward. Whoever this was, they could barely stand, clinging desperately to their weapon like it was some sort of lifeline. He'd felt the same way before, using all of his strength just to put one foot in front of another. Even with that gear, if it came to a fight, they'd have the upper hand. He hoped.  
  
With a gloved hand, the masked man removed his breathing mask. Then his goggles. Then his combat helmet, letting it drop to the ground from limp fingers. His hair and beard were long, uncut, and choked with dust. His eyes stared out from deep, blackened sockets. They were too white against his dirt-smeared face.  
  
Montgomery felt himself relax, moving from training his gun on the stranger's head to covering him generally. The man swayed on his feet, carbine held limply in his hands. He didn't seem like he was about to return fire...  
  
The sheriff gave his men a signal, and stepped out from behind his cover. He raised his free hand, pointing the pistol down at the ground. “My name's Sheriff Montgomery.” he said, voice raised so the armored man could hear him clearly. “We don't want any trouble, stranger.”  
  
The dirt-smeared man relaxed his grip on the gun, letting it hang from one hand. “John.” he said through cracked lips, barely louder than a whisper. “My name's John.”  
  
“John, we're not here to hurt you.” Montgomery said, holstering his pistol. His men kept their weapons trained, cautious. With his helmet removed, Anders could easily put a bullet between the stranger's eyes if things went south. “We need you to drop your weapon.”  
  
“Careful.” the closest deputy said quietly. “Look at his eyes- he's shell-shocked.” The sheriff took another step closer, hands raised. It would be a cruel twist of fate, he mused. To be shot in a negotiation like this-  
  
The man held the carbine out, his arm shaking under the weight. Montgomery was close enough to take it, gripping it by the barrel and clicking the safety on. The stranger- John- slumped to his knees like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. “It's over...” he breathed. His backpack shrugged off his shoulders, falling into the dirt of the street with a loud clanking sound.  
  
The sheriff let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as he knelt down in front of John. From this close, he could see the difference between this armor and the Black Armor worn by Veteran Rangers. The longcoat had armored pauldrons, there were bandoliers with several banana magazines for the marksman carbine- and the number 13 scratched into the top of the breastplate.  
  
John knelt, his head hanging limply. That armor had to heavy- and it wasn't going to be easy moving the exhausted man while he was wearing it. Tentatively, the sheriff reached out for the long coat in an attempt to remove it- John suddenly reached up and unclasped the strap connecting the pauldrons to each other.  
  
The breastplate was next. It was connected seamlessly to the arms, without any visible way to remove it. John raised his arms above his head wordlessly. Montgomery was suddenly reminded of changing his nephew's shirt when he babysat on furlough.  
  
The sheriff stood up, pulling the riot gear off of the wanderer's torso. It must have weighed at least twenty pounds, and he set it down with a grunt and the clunk of metal. Montgomery recoiled backwards, a wordless gasp coming as he saw John's torso- covered in scars.  
  
There were bruises all over the chest and arms, from blunt force trauma or small arms fire that hadn't penetrated the riot gear. Several long gouges covered by makeshift bandages which had become absolutely filthy with sweat underneath the armor. And many smaller scars- both from blunt and sharp weapons.  
  
The sheriff grimaced, doing his best to ignore the smell of unwashed person and infected wounds. It wasn't something he was unfamiliar with from his time in the army, but it wasn't something you really got used to either. “Can you walk?” he asked, reaching an arm out.  
  
John slowly rose to his feet, using Montgomery's shoulder as a support. They began to walk back towards town, the backpack and carbine lying abandoned in the middle of the road. Montgomery saw his men moving closer to assist- and the inhabitants of Grand Staircase staring out of every window along the main street.  
  
“What are you all staring at!” he barked. “Someone help me get this man to the doctor!” The audience dispersed, most ducking away from the windows. His deputy ran up and took John's other arm, making the going far easier. _Why the hell did the doc have to set up on the far side of town?_ He complained internally.  
  
-  
  
The doctor's office was right above the town's post office, which was right next to the communal stables. It was a small upper room, also serving as living quarters for the doctor. It didn't see many visitors other than the occasional cut or broken limb.  
  
Thankfully, Doctor Richards took pride in her degree from the Followers in Boneyard, her diploma prominently displayed above the entrance. She also had nearly every modern convenience that could be expected of such a small office, considering that supply shipments could take almost a month to arrive.  
  
So when Montgomery arrived with John, (getting the man up the stairs had taken a real team effort with the other deputies) Richards sprang into action with the coolness of a professional. Showing no sign of being bothered by the smell, she cut away the filthy bandages and began meticulously cleaning the wounds underneath.  
  
“Doc?” The said, hesitating as she continued her work at lightning speed. “Can't you just check his wounds with his Pip-boy?” he asked, pointing at the instrument still affixed to John's arm. Richards paused, dropped her disinfectant rag with a sigh, and grasped John's arm firmly. She poked strategically at the device to bring up the medical history section.  
  
Her eyes widened. “Two broken ribs, fifteen lacerations and abrasions, more bruises than the computer can count accurately, and severe exhaustion.”  
  
Montgomery whistled. “Christ. I'm surprised he's still standing.”  
  
“I'm surprised he doesn't have internal bleeding.” the doctor said as she cut away at John's filthy, dirt encrusted jeans and began pulling them off. Montgomery wisely decided to look away. John was either too out of it to care or didn't seem to mind. He wasn't sure what option was worse.  
  
“He's not dehydrated. Or irradiated. Or starving. Or infected with communicable-”  
  
“I get the picture.” Montgomery interrupted. “What I want to know is how the hell he got here through that tunnel- that door's been locked for as long as anyone can remember.”  
  
John's eyes blinked open, and he groaned. The doctor paused, in the middle of disinfecting his leg. “T-the door...” he whispered. “There's a key- lock it... Don't- Don't let anything follow...”  
  
The door swung open, Anders arriving with John's backpack and his carbine. He met the three stares of the people inside the room, looking at him without blinking. "Right the door! I'll just be going to lock the door." He took a step backwards. "Right now.”  
  
The door to the office closed. John relaxed back onto the operating table, a small smile on his face. “My gear... good.”  
  
“Don't get too excited.” Richards said, injecting a stimpack into his arm and checking as the wound repaired itself. “As soon as I'm sure you're fine, you're going straight into the bath.”  
  
“A bath...” John said, eyes closing again. “Haven't had one of those in a long time...” Montgomery's nose wrinkled from the smell. Considering the hell the Mojave had likely become, he wasn't too surprised- it had been like that during the service, where every drop of water was needed for drinking. The man's face was so caked with dirt and blood it was difficult to make out his original skin color.  
  
Richards reached into her desk, removing a sewing needle. “Alright, John. I'm going to see if I can't get that Pip-boy off of your arm there. Is that alright?” she asked. The only response was a quiet snore, as John's eyes were already closed in sleep.  
  
He was almost impressed. _Never seen anyone fall asleep that quickly..._  
  
She sighed, lifting up John's arm to inspect the portable computer. He didn't even flinch, continuing to sleep like a baby. With a push of the needle into a small hole, the Pip-boy unlocked and fell away from the arm into her hand. Biometric needles dripped blood slowly as they retracted, the device restarting.  
  
Montgomery reached over for John's backpack, noting the fire ax strapped to it and how it's blade was stained with rust and what looked to be dried blood. He hesitated, halfway through reaching out for it, wondering if the possibility of gaining knowledge was worth the possibility of making John angry at him for going through his stuff.  
  
The sheriff glanced at the room's other occupants with a calculating eye. John was still soundly asleep, mouth wide open and snoring quietly. Richards had sat down at her desk, poking and prodding at the pip-boy's controls. Apparently she was confident that John would be fine, at least for the time being. Hopefully that was what she was doing. He'd hate for the man to bleed out while they searched through his possessions.  
  
He got over his hesitation and reached out for the backpack. It was heavy, taking some effort to pull across the floor to him. At least fifty pounds, he estimated, even with the fire axe and marksman carbine removed. _Although, that's pretty light for traveling all the way from the Mojave to here._  
  
The outside pockets of the backpack held a well-worn canteen, filled with purified water. It had a slight metallic taste to it- one he recognized. _That's from those anti-rad tablets... I remember those from training._ That had been one of the most profitable discoveries from the Mojave before the Cloud- Experimental Rad-x. It was too concentrated to take orally, killing several men from overdoses. But it miraculously removed radiation from large amounts of water.  
  
Another pocket held a bottle of the usual Rad-x pills and a half-used packet of Rad-Away. Standard equipment for any merc or prospector. There were also half a dozen mags for the carbine, two labeled with the black-stripe that indicated armor-piercing rounds. Finally, the last pouch contained both a few empty syringes that had once held Med-x... and some sort of food wrapped in a white cloth.  
  
Montgomery sniffed at the hunk of meat experimentally as he unwrapped it. The smell was strong, rank, and almost oily, which fit well with the meat's blackened and crispy appearance. He drew his knife to try to cut past the outer crust, only to find the interior slightly less tough and very dark. Was this tunneler meat? There had never been enough need to think about cooking the things before- it would be like trying to eat a rock, and only slightly more appetizing.  
  
The inside of the backpack held at least a dozen sealed bottles of water and six tunneler steaks. Clearly John had been prepared for a long, long journey. A broken cardboard box leaked 5.56 ammunition, most of the rounds hand-made and slightly misshapen. A flare gun lay at the bottom of the pack, it's trigger broken, and no flares to go with it. And a small burlap bag was tucked in beside it.  
  
Montgomery hefted the bag, listening to the clinking of metal and squinted. John had just crawled out of a literal hellhole- what use would he have for bottle caps? They would only weigh you down, and he seriously doubted that the man would use the opportunity to start saving for retirement. The sheriff opened the bag and froze. A chill ran up his spine as he stared down at the bag- filled with NCR Dogtags.  
  
He poured the bag out on the floor, hands shaking. They formed a pile three inches high, each and every one marked with the insignia of the 33rd. How many had John collected? A hundred? Two hundred? He looked up to meet Richards's eyes, face ashen. She looked taken aback- considering her controlled emotions that was the equivalent of an ordinary person flipping their shit.  
  
She held up the pip-boy, pointing to the statistics section with a painted fingernail. Montgomery squinted, just making out the text on the screen from that distance. **Humans Killed – 498**  
  
He slouched back onto the floor, the dog tags slipping from his hands and back into the pile. Four hundred and ninety-eight people killed by one man. That was more than he'd ever thought possible- except in stories about the Courier and legends about the Chosen One. But this- this was stark reality. A statistic glaring him in the eyes. Four hundred and ninety-eight. God.  
  
“Are you sure that it's not a mistake?” he asked, barely recognizing his voice as his own. He felt like he was falling, disconnected from gravity and without a floor underneath him.  
  
“It's possible to hack the display.” she said, her hands working furiously over the computer. “But there's traces, footprints left behind. I don't see any.”  
  
“What if he got it from someone else?” he asked, spreading the dog tags out and beginning to count them. “They racked up a bunch of kills, then he put it on.”  
  
“Wouldn't work like that, it resets those stats when a new user gets registered.” she snarled, throwing the pip-boy to the ground in a fit of frustration and anger. The computer had been designed to survive the nuclear apocalypse and over two hundred years of exposure. The floor dented instead.  
  
“How many dog tags do you see down there?” she asked after a few seconds.  
  
“Too many.” he replied, his hands continuing the mechanical motions of sorting. Hoping that he wouldn't see a name he knew. “At least some of these were probably taken off of the ones already dead...”  
  
“That doesn't explain all the rest of them.” she snapped. “And why he decided to start collecting the things in the first place. That's not the act of a sane man. Was he trying to send a message or something?”  
  
Montgomery's hand slipped, scattering the dog tags across the floor. “What did that thing say about his mental health? There's got to be some way the biometrics can track that sort of thing...” he said, starting the count again.  
  
“According to the pip-boy, he's still sane.” she said primly. “Neurotransmitters at reasonable amounts, considering extreme exhaustion. Of course, he's been heavily drinking to the point where I'm impressed he's not addicted.”  
  
“That's good to hear. Makes our job easier.” he said, sweeping all the dog tags back into the bag.  
  
“And what exactly is our job, if you don't mind me asking?” Richards said, picking the pip-boy back up.  
  
Montgomery finished scooping tags, rose to his feet, and sighed. “We need to get him that bath you mentioned once he's had a good rest, and about a dozen more stimpacks. I'm not going to pass judgment until I've heard his side of the story.”  
  
“I'd say that the voices of the hundreds of dead he left behind are judging him well enough.” Richards said bitterly. “Why did he make it out and not them?”  
  
“Maybe when he's awake, he'll tell us.” Montgomery said, turning back towards the door. “Call me when that happens. In the meantime... I've got a lot of letters to write to the families back home.”  
  
John slept on, undisturbed by the conversation or emotions surrounding him. His eyes twitched. Richards began wiping his arm free of mud, wondered what thoughts lay inside the head of the mass murderer. What possible dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty.  
  
-  
  
_John was in heaven- or at least, as close as you could get in the Mojave. He'd waded out into the water to get the dead NCR trooper's ammo and tag, and had been halfway through the man's pockets before realizing that his geiger counter wasn't ticking away merrily. This water was clean. Well, not entirely clean- the blood from the trooper was staining it pink rapidly._  
  
_But clean from radiation. He stripped off his backpack with a whoop, removing his armor and clothes in a mad scramble. He'd already checked to make sure that the area was clear, and he ran down to the water with reckless abandon. He felt like a kid again- some distant and faint memory of jumping into a lake stark naked returning to him. John laughed, a hoarse sound as he plunged deeper into the Golf Reservoir._  
  
_Making sure to stay a good distance away from the dead body, John swam out to the middle. His technique was off- resembling a dying fish floundering in the water. But who could blame him? He was out of practice, after all. There was a brief moment of panic when his feet failed to touch bottom- what a way to go that would have been. Drowned in the middle of the Mojave Desert, driest place on earth. Fortunately, two feet to the right was solid ground._  
  
_John plunged his head underwater, massaging his hair violently to remove the dirt and grime and dried blood. It felt incredible. He took huge gulps of the water, gargling and splashing like a lakelurk. Maybe he should have been more careful- just because it didn't have radiation didn't mean it wasn't impure. But he was already in the thick of it now._  
  
_He threw himself back, held his breath and tried to float. Sadly, his near complete lack of body fat failed to keep him atop the water's surface and he was forced to return to standing. Past the small dam, John could see the rest of Lake Mead's dry lakebed. The reservoir was only a tiny part of what had once been before, but it was huge for one man to have to himself._  
  
_After all, he was the only living thing left in Camp Golf. He had the dog tags, the riot gear, and the two-hundred good quality bullets to prove it. Eventually, John had to move on. Staying in one place was just going to get him killed. He needed to eat, and he refused to stoop to eating the corpses littering the ground. He'd never been able to understand how anyone could even consider cannibalism until his ordeal had begun. Now he understood how the hunger took you. Changed you._  
  
_So John grabbed his gear and left. But not before he washed his filthy clothes- and not before he took all the clean water he could carry._

**Author's Note:**

> After playing about fifty hours of Fallout: Dust, I banged this out as a short little story reflecting on my character and the journey he took to escape the Mojave. The moment I decided to write this story was when I was about to escape, checked my stats, and nearly spit out my drink upon seeing that I'd killed over five hundred people. I'd become just as much of a monster as the Wendigo to the NCR and the hostile survivors. Maybe even more so because I had a gun. So I got to wondering- what kind of future would be left for a person like that, even if they made it out? How would the peaceful society they're returning to react?
> 
> There's room for another chapter possibly, but I've got a lot on my mind (and a lot more motivation for another story now...) So I might come back to this- date to be determined.


End file.
